


Memoirs of Northampton

by KnightOn



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Childhood Memories, Coping, Crying, F/M, Family, Gen, Hope, Injury Recovery, Memories, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Regret, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightOn/pseuds/KnightOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets and drabbles based on each episode of season three. Some mature themes may be present in certain chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Months

Raph hated the countryside. He missed the warm dampness of the sewer, the familiar smells of underground New York. Some things he never liked about home, until he lost everything that day. There was no comfort, no warmth in his heart. He had lost all hope and it had only taken a few hours. His sensei, his _father_ , who he thought of when he lay wide awake at night, thinking of all the things he had ever done for him - was dead and gone, never coming back. And Leo, his brother, who he would never admit he loved and treasured just as much as anyone else, would never wake up. He was sure of that, it had been too long now. He sat watching him at night, every night; and began to wonder why he still did. Leo still breathed, but did that really make him alive? And what would happen if one night he just...stopped? What would he do then? 

Raph shook his head, breathing deeply to ward off the knot in his chest, the sting in his eyes. He couldn't loose another family member, not now. Not like this. He watched the steady rise and fall of Leo's chest, eyes like a hawk. Raphael was not religious, giving up his beliefs as he grew older, but he sat forward in his chair that night and cleared his mind, letting the tears flow freely. He thought positively, about his love for his family and brothers, and tried to radiated that love. It was the one thing he remembered how to do after being brought up Buddhist. 

And no one would mention it or think on it later, but that night, everyone in the house felt a comforting warmth settle on them, and a new hope began to blossom.

* * *

 

Michelangelo was never happier at the farmhouse until he discovered old cookbooks that once belonged to April's mother. He showed them to her, and for a good hour or so they poured over the recipes, April reminiscing in the lost familiarity of home cooked meals. She folded over the corner's of pages here and there, intending to some day try her mother's recipes again. It didn't make her sad, Mikey noticed; in fact, she hadn't smiled like that in weeks.

Early that next morning - the _earliest_ Mikey had ever been up, perhaps three or four - he pulled out one of the cookbooks once again and gathered up the major ingredients. He read carefully, not recognizing some of the words but trying his very best. As he combined flour and sugar, melted butter and vanilla, he kept his eyes glued to the pages, making sure he didn't miss one detail.

Normally, he would take a few 'artistic liberties' while cooking, but as he worked he thought back to the smile that had been plastered on April's face, the way she remembered even the taste of pancakes and cookies, though it had been lost on her for years now. Mikey smiled to himself the whole time, determined to get April's mothers cooking just right.

Around seven, everyone was up and about, and Donnie had retreated to the bathroom to wake up Raph. April walked in to the kitchen, where Mikey had collapsed on the kitchen counter, covered in flour with dirty dishes piled high in the sink. There was a large plate in the center of the dining table, another plate covering it. April peeked under the plate, and, to her surprise, found the most delectable, delicious smelling pancakes she had ever laid eyes and nose on. She grinned, ear to ear, and gently woke up Mikey. She helped him serve his perfect creation; to the surprise of everyone at the table; and Mikey sat and watched them eat, really _eat_ something he had made, and everyone loved it.

And later, when he and April did the dishes, she planted a kiss on his cheek. And he understood why Donnie loved her so much.

* * *

 

Donnie and April talked about Splinter at night, sitting on the swing together outside, swinging gently in the cold air. Donatello listened to her talk, insisting that Splinter was alive, that he had to be, that there was no way that such an experienced, enlightened master ninja would go down so easily. She was so adamant, and Donnie smiled and nodded and let her talk, but. He knew he must be dead. Every night after that terrible day he wished their master was amphibious like them, so he could survive in water, why did he have to be a rat, why did he have to be _anything_ but human? Why had he been dealt such a terrible hand and how, oh _how_ had he ever gone on living as he did? Donatello remembered pieces of his early childhood, where his father was quiet and withdrawn, and changed their diapers and fed them and did more thinking than fathering at first. He had been depressed, horribly, and Donnie wondered if he had ever recovered. 

There was absolutely no way Splinter could have lived through all that he had faced. And even if he did, would they ever see each other again? And what if Leo...what would they tell him? It was a problem Donatello struggled with daily, and no amount of knowledge he had gained could help him figure it out. But he loved April, and loved to hear her talk, so he listened. And really, talking about Splinter helped him cope a bit. No one was okay, and the amount of therapy they would all probably need in the future was unimaginable. But this farmhouse was all they had now, and even though the family was crumbling, it just meant they had to be closer. 

Donatello wondered if he and April would ever confide their feelings in each other - at night, he rubbed his arm where he had been shot, and thought about their last talk - and as the days dragged on to weeks and led to months, he cared more and more about their relationship. 

They stopped talking at night after about a month or so. It just made them both realize how much they needed their fathers right now.

* * *

 

Casey cried that first night at the farmhouse. He sat outside, when everyone had gone to sleep, and wept silently. He had lost his father, who he loved and admired, his old man the hockey star; and his sister, his _little sister_ , who he vowed to protect no matter what the cost. And he had failed, and failed so miserably that he began to believe, on the entire drive to April's old house and the whole day following, that he didn't deserve any kindness, any love at all because if he couldn't even protect his beloved little sister than what _did_ he deserve? Did he even deserve to _live_? Why hadn't it been him? Why did his precious little sister have to be mutated, why did he have to loose his father?

Normally, he and Raph shared everything. But they had stopped talking recently, only exchanging a few glances here and there. One day they locked eyes for just _seconds_ , and Casey saw the same sadness and regret in Raph's eyes that he himself had been battling. And he wished they weren't so hardened to bury their feelings. They would break one day, they knew, and they carried that burden with them. It was worth more to them than being honest. And it was the worst thing they could possibly bear.

And they knew, speaking to each other through glances, that nothing would ever be the same, no matter how much they wished they could just go back.

 


	2. Forestry

Raph could breath out here. The air was so cold and fresh, and made his lungs hurt when he stepped outside. But whenever he coughed he felt like he was clearing his lungs of filth, of city smog and horrid sewer air. Those first few days were tough, and his only escape was the cold night air, when he cleansed his body of the past, a catharsis of sorts; a purging of his fears and sadness.

And it took forever, of course, but after Leo woke up everything got easier. He loved his brother so dearly, and his awakening allowed him to go out and breath the air that he loved so much, to drink the water he could see right through. He thought he hated trees, was destined for city life. All he knew was scrounging and scraping, trying to get by with scraps, sleeping on stone floors. He recalled, often, being a child and sticking his nose out through the grates in the streets, cars splashing dirty water in his face, exhaust clogging his lungs. It was all he ever knew.

But he adapted to country life now, never envisioning himself returning to New York. The possibility of the future frightened him, and the only relief was the outside world, where the trees and air lived and thrived. So he adjusted, to be alleviated of his anxiety of the future, the depression of loosing his father and home; and the forest outside the farmhouse became his knew home. 

He would live in the trees if he could.

* * *

 

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had been clogging her space, suffocating her, breaking up their friendship with his desperate attempts at affection - he wanted so badly to believe that she loved him. But now, Donatello felt like he had committed a crime. How on _Earth_ could he have been treating April like this for so long? Of course she hated the smothering; and to make it worse, she was being choked by close contact and unwelcome affection by two people. _At the same time_.  

With all his knowledge, all his tactical thinking, he never once thought about how he was making April feel. He knew very well that human women struggled to live comfortably in society - it wasn't hard to learn about it, really - but was he and instigator? Did he just make April feel worse? Was he making the whole situation worse? 

If anything, he just hoped April at least wanted to be around him as friends. He didn't want to loose that.


	3. Nuclear

None of them had ever known what it was like to have a mother.

April only dreamt at night, about a life with both parents, trying to piece together the person she imagined her mother could be. Sometimes she was a redhead, like her; sometimes she was a movie star, strutting the red carpet; sometimes she was a mixture of faces and voices, fuzzy in her mind but the feeling of a warm embrace the only thing that mattered. And she always held close to those dreams, clinging to them like a fleeting memory, afraid the images in her mind would fade away at any moment.

Casey had a mother at one point, and it was painful for him and everyone around him after she passed; but at the time, his sister needed him more than anyone else, holding on to him for dear life at night, holding his hand when he wasn't looking - so he mourned when he could, but found it was easier to stand tall and put on a brave face for his dearest little sister. Having a mother in the house was a reminder to him, if anything, that his sister was still in New York, and though he was happy for April, he found it best to stand to the side.

The boys, however, rarely let the idea of another parent past their mind.

Growing up Leo would be caught staring at the old black and white photo of his father, entranced by the woman next to him. He wondered what she was like, where she was; sometimes at night he dreamt of her, a goddess with flowing black hair, surrounded by white flowers and a warm glow. In his dreams they played together, planted flowers. So he always believed that somehow, Tang Shen was watching over him and his brothers, like a mother but an entity all in one.

Raph had always been fine on his own, never seeming to care whether any member of his family was around or not. His love for his friends and family grew and changed as he aged, of course; but no one would ever know that sometimes, at night, he would sneak out and stare up at the street through the sewer grates, fishing for glimpses of mothers and their children - and couldn't help but wonder, no matter how hard he tried, what it would be like to have a human treasure him and hold him like the baby boy he was.

Donnie read picture books that featured families, the ideal family, the only kind; a mother, a father, and usually a son, perhaps a daughter, maybe both, but never more than two at a time. So to him, his family was unusual. And if they were ever going to fit in above, something had to change. At least, that's what the books taught him. Growing up he realized how silly he had been, to think not only that that was how a family was _meant_ to look, but also how he thought that the structure of his family made them odd - not the fact that they were mutated animals that could talk and walk. As he got older Donatello learned to love his own family, and not daydream about what could have been.

And, unbeknownst to anyone, Mikey was the child that truly, desperately wished for a nuclear family. It was the children's books, the television shows, the love for his father and brothers but the nagging feeling that something crucial was missing. He imagined mothers for himself, drawing suitable matches for his father in crayon and presenting them for his choosing. Yet his father would only chuckle, pat his head and send him on his way. Of course he loved his father, but he couldn't find the kind of softness a mother had in him. Mother's were gentle and warm, delicate in their movements like ceramic ballerina. He loved his father, yes, and he loved to spar and wrestle with him, but he wanted that tenderness only a mother could have.

He knew what a mother was, what she could be; and this being presenting itself as April's parent, he knew, was anything but loving.

* * *

 

He had never been so terrified in all his life. His body shook, his legs wouldn't move - god _damn_ his bad knee - and without the ability to fight he clutched to his cane, heart pounding in his ears. He scrambled for the stairs, pain radiating in his leg and throughout his body, shaking hands moving quickly for the creaky wood stairs-

_snap_

The wood splintered under him, cutting his hands a knees, shards pressing in to his tender skin. His shoulders arched. He didn't _dare_ look back.

But he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I got all the Buddhist stuff right, so please correct me if I'm wrong! I wanted Raph to pray, but Buddhists don't pray necessarily; meditation is their key, and exerting kindness is kind of like a Buddhists form of prayer.


End file.
